


Spare Not the Rod

by pherede



Category: The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Sounding, Urethral Play, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:59:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherede/pseuds/pherede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt over at the kink meme. Dean is trying something... unusual. Richard catches him at it. Unsanctioned use of prosthetics props, near-masochistic sounding play, and men who don't know how to close their doors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spare Not the Rod

He's always jacked off this way, thumbing over the slit with each stroke, seeking the irritable spark of rough thumbprint on the tiny split crescent of sensitive skin inside. Lately, though, with the stress of filming and the nebulous new attractions that are always surprising him-- is he really looking at Aidan's ass? Is he really looking at _Sir Ian's_ ass?-- it scratches some itch he can't otherwise touch, these urgent twinges of not-quite-pain.  
  
It doesn't occur to him to think about _more_ until he's in the prosthetics shop, where he sees it: a long thin steel rod with a bulbed tip, the kind of thing used for impressing liquid rubber. He looks at it; he wonders what it is he's thinking of; and two days later he realizes what it is he wants, and he steals it with shaking hands (how to explain, if he is caught with it) and dashes back to his trailer.   
  
He cleans it with soap and water and alcohol. Now that he's holding it, it seems almost too big, and he pictures it stretching his hole open-- and he shudders with sudden anticipation, so hard he thinks he must be leaking.  
  
Dean shucks his pants and underwear only as far as they need to go, and stretches out on his bed, biting his tongue. Lube, he'll need lube-- there, in the drawer. A towel, because he is going to come so hard... can he come, with a rod in the way, with metal filling him tight? _God_.  
  
His foot scrapes against the thin metal of the trailer wall as he places the rod's tip right at the opening of his slit, and strokes himself twice, feeling cold steel against the sensitive skin; then he eases it in, only a fraction of an inch, and the sensation is so intense and so overwhelming-- like needing to piss, like needles in his cock, little icy flares of urgency and wrong that set him gasping-- that his foot slips in earnest, and bangs hard against the metal.  
  
Better be careful. The trailers are close together, and the walls are thin, and did he hear footsteps a moment before? Careful, careful.  
  
Another millimeter and he groans, tilting his head back, wondering how he's going to handle all of this. It's not _that_ long-- the slim portion below the bead is a few inches longer than his cock-- but it's all going in if he has to fucking kill himself for it, he's going to feel it in him while he strokes and he's going to feel himself around it when he comes.  
  
He has to pause after another inch, because the throb in his cock is so brutal it already feels like coming, only stretched and almost painful, like he's bee-stung and swollen. He doesn't give himself time to recover, either, pushing onward while he's still twitching, not even feeling the scrape of his foot against the wall; and he has it in almost the full length of his shaft, his throat and chest are burning with arousal and his balls are tight to the point of agony, when there's a scuffle at the door, the snick of a latch, and a knock.  
  
Shit. _Shit_. He didn't even hear anyone on the step. How long have they been there? Are they opening the-- no, the door is closed, then what was the sound-- but fuck, he doesn't want to pull out the rod, it seems like it would hurt to go fast-- and he wriggles back into his jeans, pulling his invaded cock tight against his belly, and brushes his shirt down over the bulge of his crotch as he says in a raw voice: "Can I help you?"  
  
It's Richard, and Dean knows this because of answering Richard just comes in, his grave perceptive face in shadow as he bows to avoid the ceiling. "I was just, uh, getting ready for bed," says Dean, but Richard stops and stares at him, piercing him with his eyes, and Dean feels his cock throb _hard_ around the rod.

"You left your door open," says Richard, and his eyes flick down to Dean's crotch.  
  
"Oh," says Dean, feeling humiliation and adrenaline flood his body. "I, uh, sorry. Did you... see anything?"  
  
"I'm really not sure," says Richard, and without waiting for an invitation he sits beside Dean on the bed, and this is really not helping things because Dean is going to _explode_ in a few minutes and he really hopes that the rod will keep him from shooting, that he can disguise it as a coughing fit maybe? He is _so fucked_.  
  
"I have to confess," continues Richard, whose hand rests dangerously close to Dean's thigh, "that I really did wonder what you were doing, and I was... watching."  
  
"Watching," echoes Dean, _please God strike me down_.  
  
"It looked like you were..." Richard holds out a hand, tentative, asking permission but not ashamed of the asking, and when Dean says nothing Richard sets it down heavy over the shape of Dean's cock. He doesn't finish the sentence; instead, when Dean still says nothing and his breathing is tortured with lust, Richard undoes his fly and exposes the whole thing-- cock, balls, steel rod, smears of lube-- and breathes in hard through his nose.  
  
"Fuck," says Richard, succinctly; and then his fingers move, and he strokes Dean once, experimentally. The steel is warming inside him, but still rigid, and the friction and slide both inside and out are almost more than Dean can stand even without looking at Richard's intent face and _oh god_ smelling him, this close.   
  
Richard lifts his cock until the bead is bobbing in midair, a few inches out from the slit, and takes the bead and rolls it between his fingers, twisting the length of the steel inside and absolutely destroying Dean's mind with the fury and jittering torture of the sensation. "Does it hurt," murmurs Richard, and Dean summons the presence of mind to nod, and Richard smiles all teeth and tip of tongue and replies: "Good."  
  
It's out of Dean's hands now. He clutches helplessly at the bedsheets and bites his tongue to keep from begging as Richard twists the rod, working it even deeper, until it's so deep that it holds his cock at an angle from his body, so deep he can feel it in the flesh at the root of his shaft, between bone and balls, and still deeper. Dean babbles and weeps, bucking, held rigid in his joints lest he jar the rod but still jerking in small spasms of desperation; and finally the bead reaches his tip and he is full of it, stretched tight and tingling around the steel, with the flaring base of the bead forcing his piss-slit even wider.  
  
Dean gulps for air, gasps, feels every breath like a spear through the length of his cock; and Richard looks at him for a few moments, like a hunter who has impaled a prize, and then stoops to take Dean's cock in his mouth, lips stretching wide around the agonized shaft.

At any other time this would be unbearably good; now it's torture beyond anything Dean can even imagine withstanding, and as Richard tongues around his overstressed piss-slit and rolls the glans back and forth along the steel with his lips, Dean is forced to switch from biting his tongue to biting his hand. It hurts so much-- the awful urgent hurt, the kind of cramping burning pain he has only sampled in sweet tiny violent doses as his thumb finds purchase on his cockhead-- and it feels _so good_.  
  
When Richard takes him deeper, lips stretched over teeth working the length of Dean's cock down and then up the rod, Dean feels himself tightening, and as the burning delirium of orgasm comes rushing up in him he tries to warn Richard: "Oh god coming--"  
  
And of course Richard doesn't move, only hums around the flesh and metal, and then there is an awful blocking pressure as Dean convulses and comes around the invasion of steel, and scarcely a drop of come can seep out around the tip. He thinks his belly will ignite with the excruciating frustration, the tremors and pulses of orgasm with the blinding building pressure that can find no outlet; and it's slow to subside, still racking him even when Richard starts sucking him again.   
  
He is going to die. The pressure is so intense and the flurries of sparks and stabs that rise up in him like sick needle-pinches along his spine are overwhelming, and Richard is not letting him rest even for a moment, and now suddenly Richard's knuckle is digging hard into the skin behind his balls and he can _feel_ the rod, he can feel the pressure of fingers against his prostate from deep inside and the way the skin tightens where the tip of the rod meets some inward curve, and before he can even stop coming from the first enormous disaster he is coming again.  
  
This time, though, as semen beads up around the tip of the rod, Richard withdraws it, swift enough for sharp wretched pain and slow enough to keep that burning build rising, with his knuckles dug hard into their sensitive space; and Dean is coming and coming and it feels like he's orgasming so hard that his come is pushing the rod out, even though it's Richard drawing it, long and long and forever and it will never stop--  
  
\--and then the rod is gone, leaving searing-hot semen burning the core of his cock as it spurts, his body prolonging its climax until every gush of fluid is drained from him by those probing knuckles and the memory of stricture. He comes forever, and hears the ringing haze close in because he's coming too hard to breathe, and his chest heaves but he can't get air and his cock is _even harder_ as the last tortured dribbles fling from his purple-stretched piss-slit and he is fucking _blacking out_  
  
He comes to in a gasping confusion, his cock burning and aching, his whole body wrung raw; and Richard is smirking down at him, knowing full well what he's done.  
  
"My turn next," says Richard, undoing his fly, sliding his fingers through the come on Dean's belly and slicking his own piss-slit; and Dean watches in blinding arousal as Richard rolls the still-warm rod in more of Dean's come and then offers it to him, bead-first, with only Dean's come for lube.  
  
"Prosthetics is _never_ getting this back," says Dean, and pushes Richard back against the wall, and takes his cock in one hand and sets the tip of the rod against him, and hears that first shuddering urgent gasp.


End file.
